You drop your bag and chase after Gus. Behind you, Officer James trips over your books and faceplants on the floor. You burst from the school doors onto an empty lawn, and grab your bike from the rack. Officer James runs out of the school, but stops his chase as you ride down the street. You race toward town, occasionally glancing over your shoulder. Nobody follows you.

The chimes above the door to Don’s Donuts jingle as you walk in. Gus turns around and his eyes widen. He waves you over.

“Holy crap, I always figured you for a goody-goody.”

“The name’s Jake,” you say, shaking Gus’ hand.

“Hi Jake, nice to meet you. Sorry about knocking you over earlier.”

“It’s no big deal,” you say, but you’re kind of glad it happened.

“You like maple bars?”

You nod.

“Hey Pops, get Jake here a maple bar.”

The man behind the counter smiles and ducks into the donut counter.

“Wait, that’s your dad?” you ask.

Gus laughs. “Yup, has been for twelve years.”

“He doesn’t care that you’re ditching school?”

Gus shrugs. “Know he can’t stop it really, figures I might as well be here where at least he knows I’m not off doing something stupid.”

Don, Gus’ father, delivers a maple bar and a carton of whole milk to the table. “Nice to meet you Jake,” he says. “A friend of Gus’ is always welcome here. Gus don’t have many friends.”

“Shush dad! You’re gonna embarrass me!”

You struggle not to gasp. Gus, not having friends? He was the biggest, meanest kid in the whole school. He could have any friend he wanted. Not like you, the weakling that is picked last for kickball and left at the museum on field trips. You shove the maple bar into your mouth so you don’t have to say anything.

You finish your donut and Don tells you it’s on the house. You follow Gus around back and he takes a cigarette out of his pocket. It’s bent in the middle, but he straightens it out and rolls it between his fingers. He lights it, takes a long drag, and then coughs.

“This is a real strong one,” he says. “I know where to get the real cigarettes. The illegal stuff from Europe.” He coughs again. “Here,” he says, and holds out the cigarette.

Now we both realise that your styles are weak, feeble, and it is long past time that they be ended. You have suggested it be me that should do this; so let it be written.

Tl,dr: bring it, bitch

I'll judge this one.

Muffin vs sebmojo: Almost Down-Under Brawl

Write a story where a character undergoes a complete transformation. Not just a change of heart at the end of the story, but a slow, irreversible, completely opposite person of who they were at the beginning of the story. Convince me that this person is different. I really need to believe their motivations and understand why they did what they did. The more extreme the switch, the more points you'll get.

Word count: 2,000

Don't feel obligated to use all of them, but I didn't want you to be limited by trying to cram what you need to write into a few words. Make me believe this poo poo.

I'm sorry Roguelike. I'm sorry you wrote a good story and then made a good prompt and now have to judge a shitload of stories. I hope you drink, because you might wanna stock up on your beverage of choice.

Record is 32 entries, and you're at 32 signups right now. Some horrible people will flake out because they aren't worthy of the air they breathe, but maybe you'll get another 10 tomorrow!

Newbies be warned: if you write a terrible story with no point, this might happen to you.

Muffin:

You spend too much time describing this thing I know is a lawnmower. You don’t need to convince me. I’ll trust that they have no idea what the gently caress it is, and I pretty much expect them to turn it on. You should spend a few of those words on your characters. Fela is just a cardboard cutout “beautiful woman.” You should show me exactly what Bok finds attractive, and what these flowers he needs mean.

The middle of your story is weighed down a bit by overly-physical descriptions. Flan is a useless character I know nothing about. Why does Bok insult the religious man so freely? You say that Nuggtugg regularly proclaims thing evil or whatever, but does this annoy Bok or what? You just tell me it as a fact.

The blue flowers shooting out the back is really confusing. We pretty much evolved for being able to spot shapes and colors at distance, so it’s hard to suspend my disbelief that he didn’t see the patch of blue flowers until he ran them over. And I only know they’re literal flowers because you writersplained it to me in IRC. Before that, the other judges and I were mucho confused as to what they could be. So if they’re shooting out the back, how exactly does he reach his hand down to collect them and get gobbled up? Don’t most lawn mowers have a safety shut off switch where you let go and it shuts off?

Finally, your ending. Why? Bok gets chopped up and the shaman has a one liner. This doesn’t accomplish much. There’s no significance to these actions. No foreshadowing or change. Just things happen to some characters

This story had a lot of plot holes, but relative for the week it was solid. In another week I think it would not have warranted notice, and I think this could have been made much better with some more time and character development.

Would I hit this story over the head with a club and drag it back to my cave:
Yes, but only because all the other stories already have head wounds.

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Inthesto:
Your first two paragraphs are boring bickering, and I don’t know what the story is about. Cut and start with “Always stuck in the past.”

I don’t think it’s cowardly to be floored/confused/awed by unknown technology. If a dude comes up to me, tells me he controls the weather, and then starts making loud booms, I’d be pretty impressed (if not skeptical). You focus a lot of this character trait, but it doesn’t follow logically.

I also didn’t realize that the horses were making the thunder. You didn’t give me any info that Ivan was a trickster or not telling the truth. With so many genre stories, you really must let me in on the joke that Ivan is a cunning strategist engaged in psychological warfare, or it flies right over my head. “Ivan had won many battles through trickery.” would do it.

I don’t think running horses create enough of a breeze ahead of them to bend grass. That’s a silly and pointless description. You could say “seemed to” or made it a little more abstract then it’d be good, but right now it’s so matter-of-fact.

The ending has no meaning since I never knew they were fighting over who would be chief. In fact, I don’t know their motivations for all this bickering until the very end. So he’s fighting his clanspeople? The domestication of horses and archery isn’t really caveman times. This reads more like a medieval story. And since we didn’t even know that the “technology” was supposed to be domestication (I didn’t realize that horses were a new thing to the world, just thought this guy had no cavalry) it seemed like you dodged the prompt by writing a medieval period piece. Work more communicating your ideas to your readers, and guiding them along with your train of thought.

Would I hit this story over the head with a club and drag it back to my cave:
No, I heard it has lice.

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Roguelike:
“prevailing over them all with a splatter” there are two things. Don’t use all.

“waiting day and night” how long has this been going on?

“always made her feel better” weak

“The room suddenly began to shake” -> The room shook

Your story is good. I feel like you could lengthen this out quite a bit an explain a few more things, like exactly what this portal is (is it natural? man/god-made?), how long as this been going on, why are these people still coming through after hundreds of years? I assume it’s some sort of “life-raft” or escape. maybe a prison? Why send women and children through. It’s ok not knowing ALL of these answers, but you need to sprinkle just a few more clues, so that even if Urga doesn’t understand, we do. Sort of a nod and wink to us, the modern reader. Just like the silver leather makes us assume they are some sort of 1970’s spacemen, give us a few more clues.

I’d also love to read what happens when she gets to the other side, so if you are ever lacking ideas or what to make a sequel, I’d read it. Good job.

Would I hit this story over the head with a club and drag it back to my cave:
Oh baby, I’d club this story so hard, there’d be more than one rock in my cave tonight.

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The Leper Colon V:

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Purple Prince:
Oh poo poo son, you started your story talking about the sun. You done hosed up. DO YOU KNOW WHAT YOU HAVE UNLEASHED?

SPITTLE-FILLED LINE-BY-LINE MODE ENGAGED

The sun was gone. gently caress YOU NO IT WASN’T. DON’T LIE TO ME. A dead lightIMPOSSIBLE. HOW THE gently caress CAN A LIGHT BE DEAD? IT IS EITHER LIGHT OR IT ISN’T. PERHAPS YOU MEANT TO SAY “DYING” BUT YOU DIDN’T SAY THAT. YOU SAID DEAD LIGHT. I THINK YOU MEAN DARKNESS filtered from beyond the crest of the hill THIS IS NOT HOW FILTERS WORK. WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU. THIS IS HOW SHADOWS WORK, AND ALSO WALLS., and Dolon saw glimmers of rising embers. HOW THE gently caress DO YOU SEE A GLIMMER OF EMBER. THAT MAKES NO SENSE. ALSO SENSING VERBS. JUST TELL ME EMBERS ROSE INTO THE SKY AND THEN TELL ME ABOUT YOUR STUPIDLY NAMED CHARACTER. Around him the grass was thick and lush WHAT THE gently caress DOES THIS MEAN? ARE YOU SURE HE ISN’T LOOKING AT PUBES?, and the hums of bees BEES GO TO SLEEP BEFORE SUNSET OR ELSE THEY DIE and songs of birds BIRDS STOP SINGING BEFORE SUNSET. MAYBE YOU ARE THINKING OF SUNRISE? clashedwith the rumbles and cracks OMINOUS SOUNDS COME FROM OVER A RIDGE, ARE OUTDONE BY SIMPLE PEACEFUL SOUNDS OF EVERY DAY LIFE. WHAT A BUNCH OF lovely SOUNDS. from over the ridge WHERE THE WORLD’S SHITTIEST VOLCANO WAS. He gripped his spear tighter. SO YOUR WHOLE OPENING PARAGRAPH OF A <500 WORD STORY IS TRYING TO SET THE MOOD THAT IT IS SUNSET AND THERE IS A VOLCANO IN THE DISTANCE? AND YOU DIDN’T DO THIS IN ONCE SENTENCE WHY? I KNOW NOTHING ABOUT YOUR CHARACTER OTHER THAN HE LIKES SQUEEZING LONG HARD OBJECTS. MMMM BABY SQUEEZE IT.

It shouldn't have been like this.I KNOW THAT’S WHAT I’VE BEEN SAYING That was why they'd sent him.HOLY poo poo I’M BORED. STOP YANKING MY DICK AND JUST SPIT IT OUT. The Priestess of Rhea LOL SCI FI NAME had fallen ill a week ago BOO FUCKIN’ HOO. THANKS FOR TELLING ME, and would only wake up to scream and shudder LOL. I LIKE THAT SHE AWAKES AND SCREAMS, WHICH IS TERRIFYING, BUT THEN GETS GOOSEBUMPS AND SHAKES A LITTLE. USE A STRONGER WORD, LIKE CONVULSES, IF YOU’RE NOT A SACK OF poo poo. ALSO THIS IS CALLED SHOW AND TELL. YOU TELL ME SHE’S SICK, AND THEN YOU SHOW ME SHE’S SICK. JUST CUT OUT THE TELLING PART YOU IDIOT. . She'd been lucid just long enough to describe the desolation HOW GOD drat CONVENIENT.

He scrabbled TRIPLE WORD SCORE MOTHERFUCKER up a steep slope GOOD THING I KNOW HIS ABILITY TO CLIMB HILLS IS UNENCUMBERED BY HIS LONG HARD SPEAR and was panting when he reached the crest of the hill.THIS WHOLE SENTENCE IS WASTED BULLSHIT. I DON’T CARE ABOUT HOW HE CLIMBS A HILL AND BREATHES HEAVILY, UNLESS ASTHMA FEATURES HEAVILY INTO THIS STORY. The wastes extended to the horizon. Where once had stood a brave forest THE ENTS FROM LOTR?, there were now only blackened stumps. In the remains of a glade WAIT I THOUGHT THERE WERE ONLY STUMPS? YOU loving LIED TO ME AGAIN GOD DAMMIT stood the altar of Rhea OH YEAH, THE SCI FI CHICK THAT IS SICK. AND ALSO A GODDESS?, blackened by the fires that had razed the woods. REDUNDANT BORING BULLSHIT The ground was grey with sandy ash, which drifted through the cool air like dead smoke WHAT IS IT WITH YOU AND loving DEAD poo poo? JUST SAYING AN INANIMATE OBJECT IS DEAD DOES NOT MAKE YOU A loving POET. STOP DOING THAT UNLESS IT MAKES SENSE.. A gentle breeze threw a handful of ash into his face.I JUST WANT TO GO ON RECORD SAYING THAT THE WIND IS A JERK, AND ALSO THAT I WISH IT WAS YOUR FACE INSTEAD He choked on it and blinked back the tears. HAHA. WHAT A CRYBABY

For a moment Dolon was paralysed. FOR REALS? poo poo HIS FACE IS REAL SENSITIVE Then he scrambled down toward the altar. HAHA. HE CLIMBED THAT HILL FOR loving NOTHING. As he entered the ring of trees, he heard a crunch WEAK WORD CHOICE, POINTLESS SENSING VERB like someone treading on a twig THIS MAY BE THE WORLDS SHITTIEST SIMILE. He turned toward the sound, but there was nothing there.

The altar was split. LIKE, THIS HAPPENED JUST NOW AND WAS THE CAUSE OF THE SOUND? OR IT’S BEEN LIKE THAT. WHO THE gently caress KNOWS. A long scar ran across it and extended down deep into the earth. HOW DOES HE KNOW THIS? The stench of decay mingled with the smell of burnt embers. WHY? WHAT THE gently caress DOES THIS SYMBOLIZE? DID IT ALWAYS STINK? OR IS THE STINK FROM THE CRACK? WHAT THE gently caress IS THE POINT OF THIS ALTER? WHY IS HE GUARDING IT? I HAVE ABSOLUTELY NO loving IDEA WHY THIS STORY IS HAPPENING. He gazed at the crack LOL. THIS SOUNDS STUPID. and tried to blink back the tears.GOD, HE’S STILL CRYING? Then he saw it.STOP TELLING ME WHAT HE SAW AND SMELT AND HEARD AND RAN UP From underneath the altar oozed a black substance. THAT’S PROBABLY WHERE THE FART SMELL IS COMING FROM. It gleamed, lovely WORD CHOICE and seemed to crawl away from his stare SO IN REALITY IT JUST SAT THERE AND DID NOTHING WHILE MR. BORING STARTED AT IT. GREAT. . He bent down and dipped one finger in it. OH HEY THIS MYSTERIOUS BLACK OOZE THAT SMELLS LIKE poo poo IS LEAKING OUT OF THIS IMPORTANT ALTAR WHILE OMINOUS BOOMS COME FROM OVER THE RIDGE AND APPARENTLY ALSO THERE ARE BEES HUMMING IN A WASTELAND WITH NO FLOWERS I SHOULD PROBABLY STICK MY FINGER IN IT

The pain was unbearable. I LITERALLY FEEL NO SYMPATHY FOR HIM. ALSO SHOW, DON’T TELL. It was everywhere, burning in his flesh, paining his spirit LOL JUST READ THIS OUT LOUD. IMAGINE YOU GO TO THE DOCTOR AND HE SHOWS YOU ONE OF THOSE CHARTS OF “HOW SEVERE IS YOUR PAIN” AND YOU SAY “IT’S PAININ’ MY SPIRIT, DOC!” HE’D PROBABLY DIAGNOSE YOU WITH STUPID AND THEN DIE OF LAUGHTER.. For a moment he understood how the Priestess felt.WHAT? HOW? HOW THE gently caress DOES HE EVEN KNOW HER? WHAT THE gently caress. WAIT, IS SHE JUST LAYING ON THE ALTER ALL SICK AND HE’S RUNNING UP HILLS AND TOUCHING THE POOP WATER? THIS GUY IS THE WORST GUARD EVER. He fell, gasping, onto the ashen earth DUDE I GOT IT, IT’S loving ASHY AND THERE WAS A FIRE. MOVE THE gently caress ON– just as he heard another crunch LOL WITH YOU AND YOUR GOD drat CRUNCHING. . This time he couldn't move. OH. HOW EXCITING. A TOTALLY PASSIVE CHARACTER. HE JUST LAYS THERE AND STUFF HAPPENS TO HIM. THIS IS HOW YOU WRITE A GOOD STORY. I WAS BEING SARCASTIC IN CASE YOU COULDN’T TELL.

He was hoisted into the air. OH IT’S HIS BAR MITZVAH, SWEET. A strong arm yanked him around IT’S TOTALLY RELEVANT HOW STRONG THE ARM IS THAT WHIPS HIM AROUND. THAT’S SARCASM AGAIN, IN CASE YOU’RE DENSE, and he stared into a face that was not a face. WAS IT ALSO A BUTT THAT WASN’T A BUTT AND A TRACTOR THAT WASN’T A TRACTOR? PLEASE TELL ME ALL THE OTHER THINGS IT WASN’T Its flesh glinted like polished stone. SO LIKE, A ROBOT OR A ROCK GOLEM OR SOMETHING?Two great wings protruded on either side of its bearded jaw UH. IT HAS WINGS COMING OUT OF ITS HEAD? WHAT THE gently caress? WHY? and left only narrow slits for its eyes, which glowed with pale blue fire. OH GOOD IT’S ONLY PALE BLUE FIRE. IF IT HAD BEEN BRIGHT RED FIRE OR DULL YELLOW FIRE WE’D BE IN TROUBLE HERE, BUT PALE BLUE FIRE DEFINITELY MEANS SOMETHING TO ME AND ISN’T JUST SOME RANDOM COLOR YOU PICKED

He slammed his foot against its chest OH GOOD I GUESS HE ISN’T PARALYZED ANYMORE. IT WAS ONLY TEMPORARY PARALYSIS. SO THE BLACK FART GOOP ONLY EXISTED TO MAKE HIM FALL OVER SO A POORLY DESIGNED WINGHEAD ROBOT COULD SNEAK UP ON HIM AND PICK HIM UP. and grunted with pain as a loud clang rang out. THERE IS LITERALLY NO REASON TO TELL ME THAT A LOUD CLANG RANG OUT. THIS ISN’T A GOD drat MOVIE SCRIPT, IT’S FICTION. DON’T GIVE ME poo poo THAT DOESN’T MATTER. The creature laughed; it almost sounded like a man. WHY IS IT LAUGHING? IS IT TICKLISH?

“τιμή,”GOOGLE TRANSLATE TELLS ME THIS MEANS PRICE. DON’T STICK RANDOM rear end WEIRD poo poo THAT NOBODY KNOWS WHAT IT MEANS INTO YOUR STORY, IT MAKES YOU LOOK LIKE A DICK. ALSO, EVEN THOUGH I TRANSLATED IT I STILL DON’T UNDERSTAND WHAT IT MEANS BECAUSE YOU SUCK DICK AT EXPLAINING THINGS. it said, then lifted him above its head with one arm.
“τιμή,” it repeated, IT’S TOTALLY MORE USEFUL THE SECOND TIME as it raised its other arm. LOL. JUST IMAGINING THIS SCENE IN MY HEAD IT LOOKS SO STUPID. A GIANT ROBOT WITH FEATHERS ON ITS HEAD IS STANDING WITH A DUDE LIFTED ABOVE HIS HEAD AN HIS OTHER ARM IN THE AIR DOING NOTHING, LIKE HE’S ABOUT TO DIVE INTO THE SHALLOW END OF THE POOL A bulge protruded from its wrist, HIS WRIST GOT A BONER? and inside a small cavity glowed that same blue light. WHY DID HE HAVE TO LIFT HIM OVER HIS HEAD TO DO THIS. WHY NOT JUST WALK UP TO HIM WHEN HE WAS PARALYZED ON THE GROUND AND SHOOT HIM IN HIS STUPID FACE WITH THE GOD drat LASER?

Then the fire came and Dolon thought no more. THANK GOD.
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Purple Prince…. your story… it had no point. Like, none at all. Why did you write this? A dude stands around and gets scared. some chick is sick and crazy. the dude hears some crunching, and then an alter shits out some strange liquid. he touches it, and then a robot comes and kills him. Why should I care? You’ve told me nothing of their motivations, the stakes, their background or culture. Did Dolan even want to live or was he happy to matyr himself for the princess? did his death save her, or was the robot from a race of evil robots hell bent on killing the princess. who the gently caress knows. I don’t think you know either, which is the worst thing a writer can do, write for no reason and without knowing what he’s writing about.

Would I hit this story over the head with a club and drag it back to my cave:
gently caress no! It is a mentally ill child, and I’m not a god-damned pervert!

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Obliterati:

Your story is weird. It’s filled with sciencey terms, which I think maybe is the sci-fi part of your story. If I’m correct, then it’s clever, but you didn’t pull it off well. Right now it just reads like some cavemen using words they would have absolutely no context for. Science is a man-made invention, a process with steps. Those words and ideas do not mean much in the absence of this.

What’s with all the random caps? Are these significant? Because it seems like you just did it for random nouns.

You have a story with three people talking and no dialogue attributions. I am confused who is talking some of the time. like this:

“No, not different. Is all Progress. Progress bring well more Progress. This established precept. Here is another Progress.” He waved the branch

I have no idea who he is because there is no name attached. You really need to watch out for this stuff. It’s clear in your head but not mine. It makes me do work, and that makes me angry and more likely to stop reading.

This is the second story with “a low rumble” coming from somewhere offscreen.

“He let the smaller ones pass. They were too fast for us anyway.”

Who? This would be better with “We let the smaller ones pass.”

“big beasts” - how big? elephants? deer? dinosaurs?

I’m a little confused by your story. He lit the forest on fire? And he had it timed perfectly so that the fire would burn in a certain direction and all the animals would come out at once? Since there are big beasts, that means they probably have a large roaming area, and since there were lots, it sounds like he burned down a huge forest very quickly. But we don't’ know how. Too much weird poo poo going on this story. Too many ideas for one <500 word story. Shoulda stuck with the invention of science, and not shoved other inventions in as well.

Would I hit this story over the head with a club and drag it back to my cave:
No, it reminds me of my sister.

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No Longer Flaky:

Uh I don’t want to crit this one because I hated it so much, but let me try to muster up a few words of advice.

I don’t understand the point of your story. Some guys poo poo talk women and then the woman played a prank on him? Is this supposed to prove that women are equal to men? Because it’s not really comparable. Does this change his views about women?

I won’t even get started on the “candid camera” plot line, because that is just unfiltered stupid.

This story is very bad. It was very easy to pick it for loser.

Would I hit this story over the head with a club and drag it back to my cave:
No, because I respect stories and believe they have the right to say yes.

Your story maybe could have been good. It’s near the top of my “I didn’t like it” pile, which is better than a lot of the other stories this week.

This story tried to straddle the line between serious and funny. You did the funny parts better than the serious, but the serious stuff weighed it down and made it drag.

There was some stuff in the beginning about tenfingers that i didn’t care about, the stuff about the affair. Didn’t seem to matter to the overall plot of “oh poo poo i hope i don’t get sacrificed because of this stupid religion.”

At the end of the story I’m not sure how things are going to go. Was the spaceship killing them out of ‘self-defense’ because they were spearing it? because they hate violence? because they were protecting crooknose? because they were going to kill all of them anyway? You should give me a little hint of the motivations behind the flying saucer’s reason for being there.

Overall I like your writing style and enjoy reading your stuff. You have some macro problems but you’re doing decently for ‘dome standards and hope you continue.

Would I hit this story over the head with a club and drag it back to my cave:
Yeah, I’d club it, but I’d be ashamed in the morning and try to drag it back out.

Fumblemouse:
Another top-of-the-middle story. Your biggest problem here is it’s really hard to tell exactly what the cavemen are hearing, and what is unintelligible to them, how the [asides] are coming across (are they audible?).

I get some of the names/races mixed up and I’m not really sure what is happening. I get it’s a first contact, but it’s all so muddled and not easy to follow.

The ending made me smirk, but there wasn’t enough build up to the blow ups. There wasn’t really any indication that that would happen. No talk of prophecy or doom or violence or past situations. Just deus ex boxina. Meh.

Would I hit this story over the head with a club and drag it back to my cave:
Maybe. If I was drunk or really lonely, but with no pressing reason I’d probably just go back to my cave and club myself.

You take the cigarette that Gus offers you and hold it up to your lips. It smells sweet and sticky, and reminds you of times at your grandma’s house when you were little. She always had freshly-baked chocolate chip cookies for you. The smell makes you miss her.

You press your lips against the cigarette and suck the smoke into your mouth. You store it in your cheeks like a delinquent chipmunk, not sure of how long you’re supposed to hold it in.

Gus laughs. “You gotta breathe it in, man.” He smacks you on the back and you take a giant gulp of air along with the cigarette smoke.

You can’t breath; there is fire in your lungs. You fall to your knees and start coughing. It feels like you will never stop. You wheeze and gasp for air, and Gus hands you a bottle of water. The water cools the back of your throat, and you wipe away the tears with your sleeve.

Gus takes the cigarette back from you and takes another deep drag. You stand up, but your knees wobble beneath you.

A strong hand grabs the back of your shirt, and you see Gus’ eyes go wide.

Gus drops the cigarette, and you’re both dragged back to school by the cop. You and Gus are suspended for the rest of the day, and you dad has to take off work to pick you up.

Friday

You don’t eat anything for breakfast; your stomach is still upset. You spent all last night throwing up. You’re not sure if it was because of the cigarette, or getting grounded for a month.

You head to Don’s before school to pick up your bike, which is still chained to the parking meter outside. Inside, you see Gus sitting at a table working on his homework. The door chimes as you walk in, and Gus looks up.

“Maple bar?”

You shake your head and sit across from him. “Stomach hurts.”

“Yeah, I remember my first cigarette. Didn’t eat for days.”

Don comes out from the back and waves to you. “Hi Jake. Hope your parents didn’t give you too rough of a time.”

“Got grounded for a month,” you say.

“Ouch.”

He disappears into the back from whence he came.

“Your dad is so cool,” you tell Gus.

“He’s alright, but if I don’t come to the shop I never see him. Your dad come to your football games?”

You nod.

“Sounds nice,” says Gus. “Mine was always here. I don’t like football anyway.”

“Do you want me to let you work on your homework?”

Gus looks at his paper. “This? Nah, it’s poo poo anyway. I didn’t even read the book. We should get going, the Cop said if I ditch even one more time I’ll get held back again.”

You and Gus walk to school. Along the way Molly’s bus passes you. You look through the windows hoping to spot her, and see her reading a book. Your heart skips a beat. Gus notices.

“I wish a girl would look at me the way you just looked at that bus,” says Gus with a chuckle.

“That’s Molly’s bus.” You realize what you just blurted out, and stop walking. “Uh, I mean…”

Gus perks up. “Oh no, you like Molly! It was you!” He jabs you in the ribs. “You’re the mystery Valentine boy!”

“Stop!”

“Ha ha, I’m just messing with you. I won’t tell anybody.”

You feel your cheeks getting warm and start walking again.

“She’s pretty. Does she like you back?”

“I have no idea,” you say. “I don’t even know if she knows I’m alive.”

“You have to ask her to the dance!”

“I want to.”

“What’s stopping you?” asks Gus.

“What if she says no?”

“So what?”

“Everybody will laugh at me.”

Gus smacks his fist into his open palm. “If anybody laughs at you I’ll clobber ‘em.”

“I guess…”

“You have to ask her today!”

“Okay.”

You get to school and say goodbye to Gus. You take your seat at the back of the classroom. Nobody asks where you were yesterday, or even seems to notice that you were gone. Or that you are here. You look over at the hamster. It’s cage stinks especially bad today.

You stare into space, rehearsing your introduction to Molly. The bell rings for lunch.

You grab your lukewarm beans and stale taco shell from the lunch line and head outside to the picnic tables. Your stomach grumbles for food, but the “taco” doesn’t seem appetizing. You spot Molly sitting on the grass reading her book, eating a PB&J she brought from home. Her friends are still in line, and you realize this is your chance. Your stomach growls audibly. It sounds like a fart.

JuniperCake:
I think maybe you don’t know what worms look like. “nothing I had ever heard before” tells me nothing, and is a cop out. “Clad in mud[...] Their skin was filthy” show and tell.

Your first two paragraphs are just exposition out the rear end. It’s really boring. Don’t tell me all about a world I don’t care about yet. You gotta earn that poo poo.

Then you have completely cardboard cutout characters. An old man beggar, and some greedy jerk who is a sociopath and just kind of does stuff without any rationale other than “WE DID THIS STUFF SO SUCK IT.”

Lastly, this doesn’t seem like cavemen at all. It seems like ancient greece or something. There are large armies with formations. There is scorched earth, and farming. There is advanced language. All of this points to a much more advanced society than we were looking for. You were up for a DM, but narrowly avoided it.

Would I hit this story over the head with a club and drag it back to my cave:
Sorry, I don’t swing that way.

Sitting Here:
You tried to get a little too creative with the prompt and went with a story of spacemen and then at the very end you throw some cavemen in there. This didn’t work for me.

I think you’re a competent enough writer that I don’t need to comment on your writing skillz, but I didn’t really like the story. Just too much stuff happening in 500 words. I do like bits of it, but I feel like a lot of it is re-treading old ground in terms of “stories I’ve felt I’ve read before.”

I do like the part where the people won’t stop loving though.

Would I hit this story over the head with a club and drag it back to my cave:
No, but I’d take it back to my cave and probe it for “science.”

sebmojo:
Your pun-chline depends on a pronunciation of Dan-Knug that I think is a bit of a stretch. I was reading it with a silent ‘K.’

I like little things about your story: “his favourite rock”, “loving stupid idiot fuckhead,” but there are also things I don’t like, such as “Then halfway up the slope disaster struck” (telling), the sky boulder that seems to stay in the sky way too long, and the whole colour scene was a little forced.

At least you followed the prompt though.

Would I hit this story over the head with a club and drag it back to my cave:
It’ll do.

Sorry, but this is going to have to wait a tiny bit because Muffin done hosed up.

Muffin & sebmojo

Both of you submitted stories that were far below your caliber. I can't decide which one is better than the other, because they both have major flaws. Namely that both of your character's transitions kind of suck. It's like looking into a bucket of diarrhea and trying to tease out which poo poo belongs to who.

Thus, I am declaring an emergency ROUND 2 of your little brawl so that I may better judge your excrement.

Muffin vs. sebmojo round 2: We don't get to go home

You were headed to the moon but you overshot. Now you're flying out into space and out of fuel. NASA has just informed you that there's no way for you to get back. You're going to die. Radio just cut out.

Make it count. No self-loathing or despair. No aliens.

Wordcount: 500

Due: Saturday the 18th sometime. It seems you ignore my time zones anyway so just get it in this weekend you assholes.

Jim Spaceman tapped the fuel gauge. This is good. Sets up a sense of foreboding danger. I like it. The fuel gauge which showed how much fuel he had was pointing towards ‘low’ which meant his fuel was very low. Oh, thanks for clarifying. I was wondering if it was a malfunction or something. Anticipating what your readers might think is the sign of a good writer. “Oh dear,” he said to himself. showing that he is alone--nice touch “I am nearly out of fuel.”

Verily, he was! I'm not usually a fan of adverbs, but this works well. The radio had ceased transmission, and Jim was struck by the sudden lack of candour. "Friends!" he said unto the empty air "though we have parted, I hear you in my heart! Such sweetness you brought. Oh, but a flower plucked too early smells only the sweeter!" I like that he is focusing on the positive aspects of missing his friends. Like all their good memories.

Luckily he was flying in his space ship through a patch of space that was full of space rocks that had space houses on them. lucky for him! They drifted by outside his space ship like grey pitted golf balls with space houses on them. good description “Hello in there,” he called through his radio after first depressing the radio call button. “Hello in there,” he said again. I'm getting worried nobody is there.

From the houses came no reply. My heart is beating fast with this tension! Jim wondered by whom they had been abandoned, and why. Good questions! Their windows stared at him in the manner that eyes would stare at him. poo poo. deep. He would not be alone for this final tranche of his journey into death. The last lonely eschatonaut would drift his last through the suburbs and flower beds of joyous decay. this is so bittersweet Suddenly, there came from a window a haunting sound. oh poo poo. that is spooky! It reminded Jim of honey, ash and love. "Shut up bro I'm watching TV," it said.

Jim activated the thruster button of his space capsule, I'm glad he saved his fuel, or knocked a little bit loose with all that tapping! flicking up the polycarbonate plastic protector shield this sounds very high tech! and pushing down on the red button labelled ‘thruster’ before realising that he was out of fuel and the thrusters were unable to provide thrust without fuel. oh no! tap harder! Hastily he put on his space suit. faster! the maiden will be left behind soon! He opened the airlock by turning the key labelled ‘open airl ck’, noting in passing that the ‘o’ had worn off the ‘open airlock’ sign. Now I am wondering what happened to that O! Maybe some sort of space disaster? In a few minutes he was in space. I bet it is beautiful out there.

He alighted upon the space rock, and walked towards the house. i'm getting nervous as to what he's going to find! The haunting sounds of rugby came from within, presumably coming from a television set, as it would do difficult to play rugby inside such a small domicile without causing significant damage. good point Jim knew what he must do to woo his love. He began to pound a seductive rhythm upon the walls, then let loose his heart's song. It was "Too Drunk to gently caress" by the Dead Kennedys. this is a good way to signal that you are an intelligent life form so the inhabitants don't blast you with a space gun. I will remember this, just in case.

At that moment the space door opened and there standing in the doorway of the space house was the most beautiful woman Jim had ever seen, wearing a spacesuit. awww, matching! so cute. The spacesuit had a shiny visor. The woman beckoned Jim Spaceman inside and he entered the space house. And he lived there in that house until he died, 34 years later. super cute.

This is a good story. I totally felt the tension of being stranded in space. There was a clear goal [get to space woman], a clear obstacle [no fuel], and a clear resolution [they lived happily ever after]. I really like how you handled the sci-fi stuff. It felt very real--like I was watching a Michael Bay summer blockbuster about a spaceman lost in space in his space ship.

Jim Spaceman Is this really his name? did you even try? tapped the fuel gauge. The fuel gauge which showed how much fuel he had Really? he had fuel? I think you mean how much his spaceship had. was pointing towards low which meant his fuel was very low. Oh, thanks for that clarification you loving bitch. do you think i'm retarded? like seriously? do you think my IQ is lower than yours? that's what you're implying here. Do you have a problem with me? do you have a problem with retards? are you some sort of retard-hating hate-crimer? what the gently caress is wrong with you? Oh dear, he said to himself. I am nearly out of fuel. where the gently caress are the quotations here? did you just fall out of your mother's grimey womb and let her poo poo the afterbirth all over a page and this is what came out? was your mother retarded and abusive? is there where your hatred of retards comes from, you sick gently caress?

Verily, he was! WHAT THE gently caress IS WRONG WITH YOU. you’re write ficition like i imagine those poor little african kids would write fiction. like somebody just took a typerwriter out there instead of a can of beans and was like “hey kid, want to earn a living instead of getting free handouts?” you’re that bad. as bad as a god drat libertarian using poor african kids to prove a political point. gently caress you. The radio had ceased transmission, and Jim was struck by the sudden lack of candour. "Friends!" he said unto the empty air "though we have parted, I hear you in my heart! your heart doesn’t have a cochlea you vapid, unscientific trilobite. you lovely excuse for a primate. you disgusting, slimy, twelve-legged arthropod. You were fossilized in the moment of your greatest failure, and put on display in a museum. Not under “old poo poo that sucks,” but under “greatest failure the world has ever know.” Such sweetness you brought. Oh, but a flower plucked too early smells only the sweeter!" this is scientifically inaccurate. if Francis Bacon knew this is the type of poo poo that would be poo poo out of your mouth he would have never invented science. Galileo would have looked down at his shriveled cock instead of into the heavens. Newton would have drowned himself in one of his alchemy experiments. Stephen Hawkings would have just killed himself rather than live another day as a drooling pile of poo poo that did some science once (no offense to retards).

Luckily he was flying in his space ship through a patch of space that was full of space rocks that had space houses on them. asdkljkhsadjhdsahfldsa i can’t even tell you how stupid this is. there are literally no words. even in german. I asked a german. A real one. He just shook his head. all the words that are needed to describe how awful this is died off when surprise sex and pedophilia become unpopular cultural choices. The only words that can adequately capture the essence of how god drat imbecilic this is are literally the dying words of pedophiles and rapists. Only their twisted, broken brains are capable of appreciating logic so twisted, narrative so insipid. They drifted by outside his space ship like grey pitted golf balls with space houses on them. Hello in there, he called through his radio after first depressing the radio call button. Hello in there, he said again. what the gently caress. use quotation marks when somebody is speaking.

From the houses came no reply. Oh really? tell me all the other things that didn’t come from the house, in the most passive voice please. “Also dinosaurs and robots were not to be coming from the house, which was a place which normally emanated things such as replies, dinosaurs, and robots.” Jesus, Joseph, and Marilyn, I’ve never expeirenced more wreteched prose, and I was a copy editor for Dan Brown. He’d come in high on coke and just literally drool on a page and it was better than this. Once I mistook a piece of poo poo-smeared toilet paper stuck to the bottom of his shoe for a manuscript, and it read better than your drudgery. Jim wondered by whom they had been abandoned, and why. Their windows stared at him in the manner that eyes would stare at him. He would not be alone for this final tranche of his journey into death. The last lonely eschatonaut I WILL loving KILL YOU would drift his last through the suburbs and flower beds of joyous decay. Suddenly, there came from a window a haunting sound. It reminded Jim of honey, ash and love. "Shut up bro I'm watching TV," it said.

"Comely maiden!" cried Jim into his spaWHERE DOES MY LIFE GO FROM HERE? HOW CAN I MOVE ON PAST THIS poo poo. THIS IS LITERALLY MAKING ME SUICIDAL.ce intercom, "I must know you!"

Jim activated the thruster button of his space capsule, flicking up the polycarbonate plastic protector shield and pushiI HAVE A GUN SITTING ON MY LAPng down on the red button labelled thruster before realising that he was out of fuel and the thrusters were unable to provide thrust without fuel. Hastily he put on his space suit. He opened the airlock by turning the key labelled open airl ck, noting in passing that the o had worn off the open airlock sign. In a few minutes he was in space.

He alighted upon the space rock, and walked towIT IS LOADEDards the house. The haunting sounds of rugby came from within, presumably coming from a television set, as it would do difficult to play rugby inside such a small domicile without causing significant damage. Jim knew what he must do to woo his love. He began to pound a seductive rhythm upon the walls, then let loose his heart's song. It was "Too Drunk to IT’S HEAVY. SO HEAVY. BUT IT FEELS GOOD. IT FEELS RIGHT. THIS IS WHAT I NEED TO DO. gently caress" by the Dead Kennedys.

At that moment the space door opened and there standing in the doorway of the space house was the most beautiful woman Jim had ever seen, wearing a spacesuit. The spacesuit had a shiny visor. The woman beckoned Jim Spaceman inside and he entered the space house. And he lived there in that house until he died, 34 years later.

I WILL NEVER GET THIS STORY OUT OF MY HEAD. I WILL NEVER FEEL NORMAL AGAIN. I WILL NEVER BE ABLE TO OBSERVE A CHILD LAUGHING AND FEEL JOY. MY WIFE’S EYES LOOK DEAD AND HOLLOW INSIDE. SHE CAN SEE THE MONSTER YOU HAVE TURNED ME INTO. SHE KNOWS THAT THERE IS SOMETHING IRREVERSIBLY CHANGED IN MY SOUL. MY CONSCIOUSNESS IS DOG poo poo. MY PARENTS JUST CALLED AND I DIDN’T EVEN HAVE TO SPEAK: MY VERY ESSENCE REEKS OF FAILURE AND DECAY. THEY HAVE WRITTEN ME OUT OF THEIR WILL. THERE IS NO GOING BACK TO A TIME BEFORE HAVING READ YOUR HORRIBLE ODE TO HUFFING RAT POISON OFF A DIVE BAR TOILET. WITH ALL THE DRILLS IN THE WORLD I COULDN’T TREPAN MY SKULL ENOUGH TIMES. I’D HAVE TO REMOVE MY ENTIRE FRONTAL CORTEX WITH A RUSTY SPOON UNTIL I WAS NOTHING BUT A WRITHING PILE OF CORPULENCE ON THE FLOOR TO REGAIN MY DIGNITY. I SAY THIS, A MAN WHO HAS MASTURBATED TO TUBGIRL, IN PUBLIC. THIS IS THE WORST THING I HAVE EVER EXPERIENCED, AND I’M HAPPY I LIVE IN A COUNTRY WHERE I CAN EXERCISE MY RIGHT TO OWN A FIREARM, BECAUSE RIGHT NOW IT’S THE ONLY THING THAT GIVES ME SOLACE. I DON’T EVEN CARE IF MY SPIRIT IS TOO ROTTEN TO GET INTO HEAVEN. AN ETERNITY OF BURNING IN HELL IS PREFERABLE TO BEING ASSOCIATED WITH YOUR STORY. THE GUN BARREL IS COOL AGAINST MY TEMPLE; I AM SWEATING. I FEEL ILL. I NEED TO BE FREE.

Tiny creatures ran through open plains, pursued by bigger, uglier creatures. Some of the ugly creatures rode wolf-like animals, and some of the ugly creatures had swords. There was a marked overlap between the riders and sword-havers, so much that if one were to draw a Venn diagram it would mostly look like one circle. Which draws into question the very nature of the ugly creature’s society and classicism. Are there whole groups of people totally overlooked to ride wolf-like things because they weren’t born into a sword-wielding household? Oops, the small creatures have escaped across the river now. Welp.

Her cheeks turn red and she looks down, picking at the grass. “I felt like I was invisible to you. I thought you hated me.”

“Hate you? Me? Never! I didn’t realize that was you.”

“Gee, that doesn’t make me feel a whole lot better.”

You flinch at your own idiocy. “I mean, I’ve liked you for as long as I can remember, and I didn’t realize that you were that girl the teacher made me move away from.”

Molly looks up at you. “Do you mean it?”

You open your mouth to ask her to the dance when you hear somebody yell “heads!” and look up. Gus comes barreling toward you, looking over his shoulder with his arms outstretched. A football flies over his head and he jumps for it, missing and landing on top of you.

“Ow! Gus!”

Gus stands up and brushes himself off. “Sorry Jake, didn’t see you there. Hope I didn’t interrupt anything,” he says with a wink.

“In fact you did, I was just about to ask Molly to the dance.”

Molly’s friend interrupts just as Molly is about to answer. “I saw that crash, are you alright?”

“I’m fine, Shannon,” Molly says.

Shannon turns to Gus. “That was a crazy cool fall. You should be a stuntman or something!”

Gus looks at you and you give him the stare. “If you think that’s cool, you should see what I can do down a flight of stairs!” he says to Shannon, leading her away from you and Molly.

You are alone again, and you smile at her. “So, what do you think? You and me, go to the dance tomorrow and catch each other up on what we’ve been up to since kindergarten?”

“Sounds like a date!”

Your insides jump up and down. “Ok, but right now I really think we better go stop Gus from doing whatever stupid thing he’s about to do.”

The crit is only a minor complaint, and I understand what you're saying. It's more the high-pressure, sperg-out, DON'T POST IF YOU'RE NOT WRITING nonsense that I'm walking away from. And that stupid brawl that I was entered into against my will.

The warrior priestess gazed stoically into the maw of the ancient demon. As the enormous creature brought her in close, preparing to devour her and her immortal soul both, she drew her sword and leapt; not away from the razor teeth and venom, but towards, inward, embracing her fate. There she plunged her blade deep into the back of the demon’s throat, and rode the wave of acid blood out of the creatures mouth, her armor preventing the bile from burning into her flesh as she rolled free. She gazed at her work before her.

Not bad, for a Tuesday.

It’s holding her and she jumps away? Into her fate to slay the beast? Sweet fate I guess. It doesn’t seem like it’s really hard to face your fate when it’s good. Why bother making acid blood if it doesn’t faze her?

The barbarian laughed as he stared down the bear that the world thought was a mountain. His luxurious hair flowed behind him in the wind and his muscles glistened with the effort of climbing to the bear’s head. The barbarian wound up and smashed the bear right in its jaw—a man literally punching a mountain. Its demonic eyes flashed and, as it fell, the beast’s death-roar shattered the world.

Because, legitimately, what is more manly than punching a bear that is also a mountain and breaking the world?

Where is the conflict in this? Nothing can stop the powerful man, so it’s not interesting. Was he saving something or just being a jerk? Your story ends with the whole world breaking, which I’m guessing means the end of the human race. Thanks a lot jerk.

He was bathed in light. Stars shot through the orange sky, twinkling and giggling in the distance. An orchestra of trumpets filled the air, urging him to move on. Thick ground fog stirred with every step he took. The orchestra rose to a deafening crescendo until he found himself before a beautiful monstrosity of pure radiance. The sight filled his eyes with tears and the sound of trumpets ebbed.

A gentle voice whispered in his head: "It is time. You are at peace now."

"Not yet", replied the warrior and drew his sword as he lunged towards the heathen god.

first god killing story. where is the conflict in this? a man gets to heaven and tries to kill a god. what is stopping him? the whole story is describing how pretty a place it is. boring.

Eliath wrapped the bass strings around the demon's head and pulled. The claws of angels ripped into his sides, but pain was only distraction. With a soft pluck at the deepest tone, the demon convulsed, and with the force of a small-yield nuke, it exploded and threw Eliath towards the skies. Strings trailing, he tuned his bass back just in time to parry the attack of the angel hanging onto him, and roaring the skin of its bones, he slammed the bass guitar into its skull again and again until it caved in.

"Your turn", he said, looking upwards.

demons and angels aren’t the same thing, but you seem to use them interchangeably. Why can this guy withstand a nuke? why does a demon have so much potential energy? Why is he killing one with a guitar? why does it matter that it’s a bass guitar, is the guy super boring?

The ocean roars, blue and white fly into the sky. The ocean needs violence. The ship is held in the ocean's grip, waves billow towards the pitch black sky. With a cruel jolt the ship falls hundreds of feet back into the depths.

“Boys, this will be a fine death” freezing salt water shuts the Captain up, filling his belly - pushing the bravery deep down somewhere silent.

The ocean is tired and wants company, a wave folds the ship into its dark belly. Eighteen men, lost in the womb of the water.

oh cool, adjectives. there is a lot of talk of bellies in this one. it made me hungry. also i hate this.

Anticipation grows below as the capsule touches down on the Lunar surface, the fat complacent attitude of decades past forgotten. Even now, the people speak in hushed tones and giddy whispers. They know their life’s work is realized in this one moment and that millions have toiled to see today. No matter what happens next, the people will tell their children that, like the gods, they were masters of heaven. It is difficult to focus through the tears.

Orbs propelled upwards by long striding muscle, slopes round and beautiful work against gravity held in place by taught ropes. Oscillating lenses follow movement, hydraulic shift. Cloth pulled tight against natures flow. Quickly the warm blooded balloon is hidden, shame and embarrassment follow. Warm liquid runs against gravity to sit under the crust like lava changing the color of the environment. A creature betrayed by desire.

Sorry for edit phone posted and forgot to bold title. I suck

66 words. holy poo poo your first sentence is overwrought bullshit. It does absolutely nothing for your story. STOP WRITING LIKE THIS. write a simple sentence. Is this basically: “somebody looks up. somebody watches something move. he gets a boner. he is embarrassed, and then he cums his pant. really? you thought that was a good idea because you made it vague and dressed it up in thesaurus words? imma get a newspaper and hit you on the nose

I saw him, once. His eyes flamed ice blue, and the cold seemed not to bother him, for all that his garments were a battered iron helm, a fur loincloth. None knew his name, but all knew his axe: Heartseeker. Runed and hoary with frost, it cleaved and cleaved.

I fought him, once. He was covered in blood, none his. All of it from my people. My iron thews strained, but he was my better, and he left me for dead in the snow.

The village burned. But I lived. And I shall kill him, for what he has done.

you spend your first half talking about some vague guy who kills a lot. the only thing your character does is try to fight him because…. revenge? duty? he’s stupid? I dunno. but he sucks and gets beat up. great story.

The world-eater waits at the end of its great marble hall. My blessed claymore sings as I drag her tip on the ground.

The time has come.

The world-eater's maw requires no teeth to devour; I am pulled in as soon as I approach the gaping hole, sucked down into womb-like tightness and moisture, then launched out into the abyssal black of its stomach.

The arc of the claymore describes a silver crescent that resonates in the key of excision. I gut the beast from the inside, and spill back into the world among the fragments of my silenced sword.

the middle conflict doesn’t seem real or dangerous enough. never does she seem worried, so I never fear for her. was the world-eater really going to eat the world? why can’t it eat one girl? surely there are sharp things in the world. how big is this thing? why does it hate the world?

He is the dark of night; she is the sun; the first light of dawn is a rent in him, torn by her sword. She ignites his feet with a touch, and the fickle stars flee. Yet he fights. He chokes her with cloudstuff: its tears slow her burning. He freezes her in winter: she struggles, chilled and wan. But in his age he dies to her youth, whether the end comes fast or slow, and she dances on his corpse in the break of day.

For six days, Kamir had climbed the cloven mountain to its lefthand peak. He stood now, with the desert sprawled below, searing red sand forever in all directions. A falcon circled, high above. Kamir cracked off a lazy salute with two fingers. The wind rose, bringing with it a dryness that hurt his tongue. The falcon screamed.

Years of preparation for this moment, to put his life in the hands of the gods. His doubts had long ago been scoured away by heat and dust, but faith's fire remained kindled, always.

Kamir spread his arms, leapt-

and flew.

no conflict in this one. a guy does what he sets out to do. you could at least have his feet slip or something.

Älskade Älskling, most beloved of the fairies in Falkenberg's fjörds, mounted her Corgi, lance in hand. Across from her, and barely visible through the falling snow, sat Mörker Mörkensson atop his panting Pembroke. Älskade spurred her Cardigan steed forward, and it scurried headlong across the snow, ears back. She pointed the tip toward Mörkensson's plated chest. His lance as black as his name, Mörkensson's corgi too was cast with shadowy markings, though its white chest and paws blended into the snow-blinding sky.

They clashed, and the fairies danced under shards of spear.

again, no setback. everything just happens as it seems like it should.

The blade-of-stolen-starmetal pulses in her hands. The underbrush bursts outward the beast falls upon her. Her sword carves up through the beast’s torso and it twitches as its blood bursts out in a spray.

She limps back to the town-hidden-by-mountains, her home. Flames consume the buildings, and the scent of offal floods the air. An old man, eyeless and bloodcaked, reaches up towards her. “The star things are awake!” He says as he dies.

how are there people if the sky and earth broke? who are these people? who is the beast. this was called 100 word epic, not 100 word vagueries.

Brianycus’s body burned with unquenchable rage. His horde coursed through the city drowning the defenders and peasants in a flood of steel. He and his men swept over the resistance, crashing towards the temple.

“Archer on the rooftop!”

“Chariot in the alleyway!”

Brianycus breathed in deep, he was almost overcome by the melody of screams and the aroma of flesh burning.

hi im posting this on a phone version of wordpad i count 100 words but it might be off kthnx

Solis

The parched earth beneath his feet spread to the horizon. He stood, barefoot, armed only with a lute against the flaming beast far above. He imagined its distant roar, and plucked a counterpoint. Sweat dripped from his face and he stepped back, and forward, a dance beneath its burning gaze that called on times long past.

The beast raged as its flames were swallowed. It roared, it seared, but the musician danced and played unbowed until at last its heat was shrouded. At the end, overcome, he collapsed.

Rain fell on the arid forest for the first time in centuries.

a man imagines a roar and plays some music and that makes it rain? was he ever in danger? it just seems like these two things are happening far away from each other and are only connected because you say they are.

Across the valley the priest's chanting echoed, supernaturally loud, drowning the wind's howl. He raised the ancient relic above his head as the incantation peaked.

The roc plummeted from the sky, striking the ziggurat hard enough to crack the stone. Neesha rolled free, adding the momentum to the speed of her tomahawk. Breath smashed from his chest, the elder staggered, dropping the painted skull to shatter on the blood-slicked stone.

Panting, she raised the gnarled staff the shamans had gifted her, spat at the dying man, and her single blow shattered the altar into dust.

"Your god is dead."

i’m not really sure why this char killed a god. gotta have motivation for your characters. also things happened how she wanted. no setback.

The thundering sound of axes battering shields deafens all. They face a forest of armored men, barely visible through the smoke of burning fields. On the fifth day of battle the smell of death and poo poo is overwhelming, nauseating. Blood covers every man, his own or the enemy’s. Five times he-Gondar has thrown himself towards his foes, five times he has broken their banners, and five times the enemy has driven them driven back. In their rear, their women prepare for defeat, knifes stand ready to cut the children`s throats.

Retreat is unthinkable.

Raising his axe he yells” ATTACK!”

why is this man so angry? what is he fighting for? where is the setback? it’s just mostly description of a REALLY TOUGH DUDE.

Hrolf saw the enemy before they saw him. Ten thousand men in gleaming steel armour with shields locked together, marching across the plain to bring an end to him and his. Harald stood beside him, axe drawn.

“In Valhalla,” said Harald, “first round's on you.”

“Aye,” said Hrolf. “Let's die like warriors.”

He beat his sword against his shield once, twice. The red mist descended. He made a throaty cluck. His knuckles went white around his hilt. “Ock!” he screamed. “Ock ock ock!”

Harald did the same. They gave one last mighty Ock together, then charged.

BONER ATTACK. no setback though. they just set out to die and seems they will.

She raised her head from the pillow. The pile of laundry in the bathroom had become an edifice of laundry. She let her head fall back down.

Two hours later, it was eleven o'clock in the morning. She raised her head from the pillow again. The tower of laundry leaned dangerously to one side, as if it were a still photo of a toppling building.

Her phone buzzed. Life beckoned. She was out of clean underwear.

Slowly but with gathering speed, she pushed herself from the bed and began the long trek toward linoleum horizons; it was motherfucking laundry day.

oh hey. this has a setup, a conflict, a setback, and a resolution. good job.

so i’m assuming he died? or did he realize he’d been pranked? you have a lot of setbacks here, i’m guessing that’s where everybody else’s went, right here. but you don’t have a good set up. where is this bomb and why does it matter? who is this guy and what is his motivation for defusing the bomb. he fails, now what?

He shouldn’t have eaten the second burrito. He knew that now. He knew that then, too, but the call of grilled steak, caramelized onions, pepperjack cheese, red hot jalapenos, and chipotle ranch was too great a siren’s song to resist. Now it was time to pay the piper and all he could do was grab his ankles and pray.

Because sometimes you take a poo poo and sometimes the poo poo takes you.

this isn’t even really a thing. it’s just a poop joke. that’s cool though.

Brjánn was huddled by the campfire in total silence. Suddenly the silence was shattered by a unearthly howling. A streak of light illuminated the pitch black night. A horde of etheral horsemen rode screaming across the sky. Brjánn was not a learned man but he knew this was a omen of Ragnarök. Soon brothers would battle and split each others shields. A massive wolf would swallow the sun and plunge the world into a merciless winter. Death would soon come for everyone, both gods and men.
Shaking with terror Brjánn clutched his spear tightly, he would need it soon enough.

uh. some stuff happens. the main character strokes his spear. post your masturbatory allegories somewhere else.

The tyrannosaurus was using all of the might in his tiny arms to push back meteor. It looked like the sun itself and the entire sky was crushing down on him. He quivered. His feet slipped an inch, then two inches, then a foot.

“Those fools will never escape,” said the tyrannosaurs. “Once this hits the ground, nowhere on Earth will be safe.”

The tyrannosaurs collapsed. His sacrifice delayed their fate, but did not avert it.

set up, conflict, set back, and resolution. the resolution sucked, but meh.

I look up to the sky and don't see God there. Just the smiling face of a Djin.

“A God without worship is just a lonely man” The Djin's face looms out from the purple sky, his eyes crackle with a thousand lightning bolts, he spits out fire that tears my flesh off the bone. I try to cry out in pain but the Djin won't allow it.

“I'm your God now boy. You will worship me with pain”

This can't be it. I stand up, charred chunks of smoking flesh fall to the ground.

“I worship nobody Djin”

no character motivations, no reason for this stuff to happen. don’t really care at the end.

As it responded in kind, Krolf lunged for the eyes but was knocked down. The beast made for his throat but he rolled towards its gaping maw and rammed arm and blade down its neck, stabbing it in its dark heart.

Its jaws clamped shut, severing his arm, but he survived. Thus began the legend of Krolf the Barbarian.

setup, ….no motivation, why did he have to kill the bear? but you do have a setback and resolution, so kudos.

Tiny creatures ran through open plains, pursued by bigger, uglier creatures. Some of the ugly creatures rode wolf-like animals, and some of the ugly creatures had swords. There was a marked overlap between the riders and sword-havers, so much that if one were to draw a Venn diagram it would mostly look like one circle. Which draws into question the very nature of the ugly creature’s society and classicism. Are there whole groups of people totally overlooked to ride wolf-like things because they weren’t born into a sword-wielding household? Oops, the small creatures have escaped across the river now. Welp.

Ur awoke from his slumber at the summit of the world, the whole of creation sprawled out before him. It was the song of the firebird that stirred him from his sleep, the beauty of the beast that had captured his heart. How many years had it been? How many lifetimes? He’d only been a boy when he’d first heard the tale. Once in a millennia…

Ur’s bones were old, but he knew his work. He notched his bow with an arrow and a prayer.

Kodoko the Protector dragged Hardy to Tavurvur’s rim. The white skinned coward desecrated the island from the moment Tavurvur brought him to the Slate Shore.

The tribal drums signified Tavurvur’s awakening. When Kodoko found him fashioning a weapon from the driftwood, Kodoko pinned him to the earth with his spear. Still mounted on the spike, Kodoko caved his head against the shale.

Tavurvur’s breath caused Kodoko’s skin to blister. Kodoko flayed the ink from Hardy’s arm and kicked it aside, failing to notice the mark behind his ear. When Tavurvur ate, he vomited. Kodoko was consumed. The drums fell silent.

you provided some setup and motivation, but then just went off the rails. I don’t really understand what happened.

‘And I’ll finally see the world in all its glory?’ a grey-haired man muttered almost crying.
‘You’ll see more than that,’ the doctor was visibly irritated although her voice didn’t betray any emotions, ‘you’ll see the planet dying, you’ll see the Sun burning red in its agony, you’ll see the end.’
In a minute the bandages were undone.
‘You hear that noise? Sounds like another bombing. What’s the hold-up? Open them up.’
‘I only wish the first thing I see wasn’t that morbid…’
‘Well, I wish I could see anything at all, Your Grace. Now get on with it already.’

motivation, set up, a set back… no real resolution. you’re 3/4ths there.

His first war had been what? 3,000 years ago? In all that time, in all those battles, the blood, the screams, the terror, the euphoria had been the same. Didn't matter if he was killing with a sword, a chariot, a musket, a bayonet, a pistol, an AK.

But this. This was different. Watching a small screen as the white/green figures shifted around. Then a flash. And that small ancient thrill wriggled up his spine to lodge in the base of his skull. He smiled.

War, war never changes.

setup, motivation, i think you kind of have a setback? but not really. he likes to kill but then he’s a drone pilot or something? but he still likes it? I dunno man.

He looks the dragon in the eye. He could step into that pupil sword and all, it's so large. Step into it like a doorway.

“Dragonslayer.” He feels the dragon's voice in the shaking rock. “I am the last. Will you end the age of dragons? Will you leave the forests to be cut, the fields to be tilled? What foe will be worthy of you, in this age of men?”

Behind the dragon, smoke still rises off the distant city. “None shall.”

At the end he despairs, but sword raised, he steps forward.

setup… no motivation, no setback, no resolution. this is basically just window dressing. it’s ok, but not 100 word epic

The Devil in the Details 100 words
It was cold at the crossroad, much colder than it had been all those years ago. As the time crawled steadily closer to midnight, Ernest recalled his last meeting with the devil.
"So you make me the smartest man alive, and in return I give you my soul?" Ernest asked.
"Yes," came the gravely voice of the figure in front of him.
"And there ain't no way I can get it back?"
The figure shook its head wordlessly.
With a handshake, Ernest was incredibly bright, but felt strangely hollow inside.
But now, wise enough to recognize his error, he'd come back to correct his double negative.

set up, motivation, not really a setback, just a realization, and then a resolution. it’s kinda funny, but you posted way too late.

Nights are the best for viewing him. During the day, punter after punter comes through and gawks or takes photos, which is pointless because there are far better images available in the gallery shop, and he just lies there. Meh. Not technically horrible, but why tell me about it then? That doesn't really tell me much about anything other than the "punters" (which i just looked up, means customer in british?), who I am assuming are not the focus of this story. You should rephrase it so that people still feel the need look at him even though there are better pictures. right now it just sounds like the customers are stupid. In the nights though, he's more active. I don't know why and I can't talk to him to ask him, but he paces the box, exercises, speaks to himself I think, but the box is soundproof. awkward. rephrase

your main thing here is that you have an unsure narrator. Which isn't really that fun to read, because I have no way to gauge how wrong this guy is or whatever. he's just sewing doubt in my mind about your protag. there are better ways to do this that to add a bunch of "i thinks."

It didn't used to be this way.telling, also confusing. which way? he didn't used to lay around all day or he didn't used to be active at night? both? I've watched him become more inanimate since I began. He'd pace around all day or do press-ups when I first started. Now, he spends the days lying on his back. You just showed me all the things you just told me in your first paragraph. We're not learning anything new, you're just repeating yourself. You could basically cut out most of your words at this point and left those 3 sentences and I'd have the same knowledge Some people who are these mysterious people? give them some depth. are they people who have paid to come see him? people who read about him on the internet and form an opinion? kids who are told bed time stories about him? WHO? have even claimed he's not really in there and it's a dummy or manikin did you mean mannequin? manikin is something other than what it sounds like you're describing; you just called him small and deformed.or something. I'm here all day and all night though, and it's still him.

A short story title should be immediately relevant to your story. Right now I'm still wondering how this guy is an artist or whatever, because you haven't given me any clues. You should do that thing. Right now this story is reading like it should be titled The Prisoner

As for the punters, I see the same look of admiration You need to explain the sources of this admiration a little bit. Right now he sounds like a freak from the way you've described him, and not like somebody people would admire. day-after-day, and I can feel it creep across my face late at night still. It isn't the exhibition that they're impressed by, it's the artist's dedication. We're only in the seventy-ninth year of his encasement, but people have been turning up in droves since the third or fourth from what management told me when I began. Ugh. This is so telly. Just telling me everything. This isn't a story, it's a description. And it's a little boring. It's also a little interesting, because I want to know why the gently caress this dude is in a box (other than he's david blaine or something?), so I'll keep reading, but I wish you'd handle it more deftly.[/b]

We didn't used to keep precise visitor numbers, but I asked if we could when I noticed the crowds getting larger year-on-year. oh boy, thanks for this history lesson. Management said we could and it turns out we've had more visitors every year since recording began. The fiftieth was an exception; numbers almost doubled from the year before as people came to see the halfway mark, but the fifty-first's numbers were still up from the forty-ninth's. These are all dry facts, like out of an encyclopedia or government report. You could have handled this with "And there were more visitors every year." and conveyed the same information. Or, since even that is boring, you could spice it up with some literary poo poo. "The number of visitors each year rose like my blood pressure upon seeing my exwife." bla bla bla. Just don't tell me things. WRITE about them.

Nobody else looks at the figures, and the only reason they started keeping them was fear of losing me, I think. holy poo poo, I really don't care about how many people come see this bastard. SHOW ME HIS STORY. Most attendants leave after a few years, but I've stuck around for decades now. telling I started in the thirteenth year of the exhibit and kept requesting to be put on duty for it. WHY? you don't really give any rationale or motivation for all this poo poo, you just tell me. if the motivation and what not is coming later, then cut all this boring crap out. I got my way because nobody else wanted to be in charge of what was easily our most popular work why? this seems to be counter-intuitive, and it requires working nights too every night? some nights? all night? 24 hours?. I've been here nearly as long as him, but people aren't impressed if you're just standing around on the ground rather than suspended in a glass box. you're nearer the end when you finally tell me what is up with this guy. bad. don't hide poo poo from your readers that your narrator knows. that's just rude.There's nothing flashy or showy about standing on the ground.trust your reader to understand that. no need to tell us, plus you already did with "people aren't impressed" just a line back.

Something about more vagueness. I think that it's because you don't know what it is, not because the narrator doesn't. This is the worst writing sin. the artist's dedication keeps people fascinated. <- This sentence is BS filler People can't believe somebody has actually done something like this. telling. show the amazement and reaction of the crowds.You get critics, of course, saying "he's just lying in a box. I could do something like that." But they don't. Nobody does. Everybody puts things off. Um. when did this turn into a story about procrastination? If this is the theme of the story you should have introduced it a lot earlier. it comes out of nowhere, when the theme so far has either been "patience" or "wonder" (you haven't really been clear on the story you're trying to tell here. "There's no rush," they figure, "I'll do it next month, or next year, or next century," and then they just drag on, doing the same thing year after year forever.

I'm no better than them. I've done nothing with my life. The biggest commitment I've made is staying with this job for thirteen years. It's the same admiration for the artist that's kept me here though. You're jumping all over the place. procrastination, admiration, self-loathing. Pick a theme/narrative and stick with it.

There's just under twenty-one years left of the exhibition now. boring fact. is it significant? if not, find a better way to state it. just don't make crap up to make it seem more "real" I don't know what I'll do when it ends. I've felt like I've had purpose this entire time. I don't want to go back to the day-to-day, empty existence of everybody else. ugh shut up. I want to know more about this guy and his story and why is he doing this, and you're whining about your quarter-life crisis. I don't want to spend the day waking and seeing the same faces, spend the weekends seeing my parents, grand-parents, great-grandparents, scores of ancestors, who knows how many cousinsfamily?this sentence is not a question, even with your original text The exhibition has given me something to grab hold of, and I dread the day it ends. ...

Um. Your story isn't one. This man stuck in glass is a prop for your narrator to talk to me about numbers of visitors (why?), their future job prospects (why?) and to whine about life in general. It has absolutely no relevance to this other than for the segue of "the critics say..." but you could have done that for almost anything. People think a lot of performance artists are wasting their life. But instead of contrasting that with your narrator's life in a productive way by showing me the similarities or discordance, you just flat out have him go "oh, i guess me too."

What exactly does this attendant do besides keep numbers? Does he collect tickets? Money? I have no idea. He's literally just a dude sitting watching another dude and thinking. This does not make for a good story. If you were sitting around a campfire, and somebody said "hey man, I want to tell you some of the things I thought when I was watching this other dude sit and do nothing," you'd probably want to kill yourself. "Oh, by the way, the dude was in glass for 79 years. but that's not important, i wonder what my next job will be?"

I also feel very detached from the story, because it's something being told to me, rather than shown to me. That's a whole degree of separation, and furthermore, I don't even feel like this guy is really telling me the truth. He has too many qualifiers that makes me think he doesn't even know wtf is going on in his own life. Stick with third person past tense for most cases, not this first person "let me tell you about a time in my life" crap. People want to be in the story, experience it for themselves. Not be told about something. If you're going to do first person you should be a relay for the reader to experience the world through your eyes, not to tell them a story about somebody else while you think shallow, mundane thoughts.

This will lead to your narrator sounding more sure about the story he's telling too. "His dedication to his craft, despite all the pain that was going on outside his box, fascinated all who came to his exhibit." is 10000 times better than "Something about the artist's dedication keeps people fascinated." An unreliable narrator is fun because it's somebody who's super sure about what they're telling you, but they're not telling you the whole truth, and it's up to you to tease apart what is true and what isn't. This "unsure" narrator is frustrating to read, because there's no benefit for me for NOT knowing something or being able to trust you. If you don't know something, don't mention it. Or make an arrogant guess. Pretend you know. The reader will pick up on whether or not the character is full of BS, but to have it be so wishy-washy is just annoying.

Formatting: holy wall of words. Man, break up your paragraphs some. You have 8 paragraphs and they progressively get longer and more boring. This means that your story is too heavy on exposition and not enough of exciting action/dialogue. If you find yourself having long paragraphs after each other, go back in and insert some one sentence zingers to really spice poo poo up.

Lastly, your economy of words. You could tell this "story" in 500 words easily. I crossed out SOME of these useless qualifiers and what not, but not nearly all of them. Just the really obvious ones. A few editing passes with an eye for cutting will fix these right up. You add a bunch of superfluous stuff that doesn't help your story. What the hell was all that stuff about counting visitors and what not? Why do I care that this is becoming more popular? You didn't take that anywhere. Don't stick stuff in your story just because. If that was supposed to have some point, you failed to land it.

Death may be gone from the world, but I still wound up in hell. decent enough opening line. piques the curiosity. I've seen nothing but a slide-show of faces against a drop-tile ceiling for centuries; the faces as interchangeable as the tiles. ok now you lost me. what the heck is this? a metaphor? A literal slide show? it's a little too vague and over-written to be useful.

The world rejoiced when death stopped, but never considered the implications. telling Death was gone, but pain is as eternal as life. I feel like one of the things all new writers do is say to themselves "I need to drop some 'deep' truth bombs, and like, really impress with my succinct, wise statements." Only it feels forced and awkward, and a bit preachy. Just focus on telling me a story, man.

I’d left to pick up a gallon of milk. ok? is this relevant or just filler? why milk? why not juice? or a porno? or anything?I never saw the car that hit me.One minute I was starting through Green and Allen Drive do these street names matter?, the next the world spun and there were shards of glass flying everywhere. tell and show Pain roared through my body and fell silent. cliche, boring, telling. Here, I rewrote this for you: We were low on beer. I volunteered to make the run, being mostly sober. The light turned green, and then the world turned to shattered glass and the bleating of a car horn. I gasped for air through my crushed and glass-filled lungs until there was only silence.

When I woke, my daughter’s face hovered over mine. A drop-tile ceiling framed her head. oh ok, now your poo poo makes a little bit more sense. She was six then. Her eyes were red and wet, and her golden hair hung over me like a canopy. this is better

“Daddy? Daddy, are you awake?” I tried to form the word, Yes, but my mouth refused to cooperate. My chest clamped tight around my heart. Her eyes were wide and a slight smile born of hope was forming on her mouth. All I had to do was move, acknowledge her in some way, and that smile would blossom. I threw my mind into the fight of moving, straining until my brain throbbed. a little confused, because didn't he just wake up and look at her? clearly his eyes are moving.

Her smile faded, and her mother came and collected her. so wait, this little girl was just left alone with a comatose patient and is crawling all over him, he wakes up, and then she just goes home? you need a little bit more here, because it's killing my immersion.

For countless days weak this experience would repeat itself passive. Her face hovering over mine against the drop-tile backing. I don't like this switch to present tense. just keep it in the past. The hope burning in her eyes diminishing slightly each time. The throb of my head and the stabbing pain in my chest these are pretty much cliches as I failed to move awkward dead hands and a silent jawappendages. Her tears falling as her mother pulled her away. so much telling. you should show this scene. Show this little girl begging her daddy to move or do something while the cold heartless mom just sits in the corner smirking.

One day I woke to nothing. so she was there EVERY time he woke before this? unbelievable.

As years stretched on my only companions were my thoughts and the parade of faces that marched across the ceiling ok it makes more sense, but it's a little weird, visually. you haven't totally sold me on it yet. Nurses and doctors, they would pass in and out of my vision and life. Yeah, I got that. You're just telling me what you just showed me. No face repeated for long.

This whole paragraph is repetative. You should cut out the first paragraph mention of the slide show and put it here instead. It's not strong enough to stand on its own, and you just end up repeating it here. The slide show metaphor is better than the "no face repeated for long" telling you end up doing.

I lingered through centuries. how? is this normal? is he some sort of medical oddity? or does it happen all the time in this world? do they not have any insurance policies for killing people like this? or is there no death? you leave too much unanswered here. The faces flashed like strobes. repetitive again I wanted to scream, to force some sound from my body. I struggled against the restraints in my mind. I could almost feel my arms moving as they lay limp and useless beside me.

I woke one morning he wakes up a lot to find the face of a nurse hovering over mine. the way you describe faces and hovering is very repetitive. consider punching it up a bit, finding some new way to talk about this. if you can't, then keep the best one and remove the other instances because they aren't important--if there's only one way to say something then it only needs to be said once. A faint smile touched her lips weak, but she had the blank gaze of a widow remembering her lost love. don't really know what these means, and how you interpret a blank gaze as that. why a lost love? why not a son, or a fond memory? what exactly makes you know it's a lost love? A strand of blond hair curled down from under her cap. Her face stirred lost memories. wait. you just start giving me a handjob and then walk away? you gotta finish man. what lost memories? i'm so close

She stayed with me for most of that morning. why? shouldn't she be working? is this some dumb thing like she's an angel? Finally, she stood up and started toward the door. Her footsteps echoed in my soul. haha. lame. don't do that. They stopped. I felt the passing of each second. telling Slow footsteps approached my bed and the nurse’s face reappeared. Her eyes were aflame and her gaze seared into me. oh it's the daughter. decent enough reveal.

“Please,” she said. “Give me some sign you’re still in there.”

My body lay still, but I thrashed under those eyes. I was certain she would stay if I could move. My mind flailed, imploring my eyes, my fingers, my toes, something the just move. The moment stretched, growing thinner as each second slipped through my dead fingers.

She stood up, the blaze in her eyes extinguished. She nodded to herself and wiped at her eye. She turned and walked out of the room. Her footsteps never faltered. I howled inside.

Your story has three main problems: verisimilitude, overwriting, and pacing.

There are a lot of things in your story that are unexplained and hard to swallow. Since I know that this is a "undying" week, I assume that he has to live like that forever? Only these story seems to take place over the course of about 15ish years? There's no rationale for why this guy is kept alive. If he was awake and conscious, he'd be able to move his eyes, and some system of communication would have been established. It's really hard to get into a story when you feel like there are other options the characters aren't exploring. You need to fix this with your writery powers. Stick him in some shithole country where no doctors understand his condition. Make him poor and unable to afford that level of care. Mention his living will. anything to convince me that this guy has no other recourse other than to lay there trapped.

You have a daughter that's there every time he wakes up, and then one day not. This is not believable because there would be times before were he woke up alone. Use your writery powers to fix this too. Likewise, a "nurse" that just sits there all day.

Your second problem is you just plain overwrite this piece. You try to be deep and wordy and it comes off as laughable. You're not a literary master yet. Stick to simple stories and you'll be able to add that stuff back in later when you know how to do it better. Right now it comes off as a bit pretentious and assumptive. I don't need to hear your philosophical views on death. Similarly, "echoed in my soul" doesn't really mean anything or add anything to the story that couldn't be described in a better way.

some of your descriptions are good, and some are bad. Learn to cut out the bad ones. I could tell you were really enamored with your "slideshow of drop-ceiling tiles" idea, but I don't think it strengthened this piece.

quote:

Whenever you feel an impulse to perpetrate a piece of exceptionally fine writing, obey it—whole-heartedly—and delete it before sending your manuscript to press. Murder your darlings.

Third, your pacing is a little off. This is mostly the story of a guy laying in bed, and trapped. That's cool, and i was hoping somebody would take this route when I saw the prompt. You give a bit of a setup/backstory, and then give him a goal/have a conflict. But there's no real progress toward that goal, and only constant inability to do anything. This isn't exciting. The story then ends with him in the exact same state, without him having changed one bit from the moment he woke up. Do you see why that is frustrating to a writer? Even if he doesn't physically change, you need to have him change emotionally. Have HIM gain hope (progress), convinced he's going to wake up, have tiny setbacks, and then a climax. Even if the climax is his total ruin emotionally and giving up, it'll still be a better story for watching him go through the process.

Please crit the poo poo out of my writing. I want to know why I can't get it right.

For what it's worth: I thought your story was decent. Probably your best since the death helper one. You failed to really make me feel the motivation for why the lawyer was doing the killing (that's a huge step to make), but I understood it all and thought that your writing (especially your showing) was much improved. A few times it feels a little over-written in the descriptions and similis, but just barely. The main problem is that your main char doesn't really have a distinct voice. The call over the phone is a little bland and lacking in any punch. Just two dude's talkin. The warden has more character than your main.

You realize it’s never smart to do anything on an empty stomach, except maybe swim, and scarf down the “taco.” It lands in your stomach with a thud. It doesn’t make you feel any better, but the rumbling stops and you figure it’s now or never to ask Molly to the dance.

You shuffle over to her holding your churning stomach. Halfway to her the quesiness returns, but further south. You stop, and don’t know whether to proceed or run away.

Unexpectedly Molly looks up at you. She sets her book on the grass and tilts her head. “Jake?”

Trapped. You have no choice but to go talk to her. You go over to her and try not to wince. “Oh, Hi Molly.”

“Are you ok?”

“Yeah, I think so. Just feel a little sick after eating the school lunch.”

She covers her mouth. “Oh no, you didn’t eat the taco did you?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s why I always bring my lunch from home,” she says, holding up a PB&J. “I’m Molly by the way.”

“Huh? Oh, uh, hi.” Your head swims and you try to focus on not making GBS threads yourself. Molly’s words are distant and confusing.

“Do you remember me?” she asks.

“Of course, you’re in my class,” you say, but your mind is racing with ways to excuse yourself and head to the nearest bathroom.

“You don’t look so good,” she says. “Do you want me to get the school nurse?”

You’re about to turn to leave when you hear somebody yell “heads!” You look up to see Gus running straight toward you. You realize too late that he doesn’t see you, instead he’s looking over his shoulder at a flying football, and he runs into you. Not only does he hit you, but his arms wrap around you as you both fall to the ground, and he lands on top of you, his bony hip pushing into your stomach.

You hit the ground and suddenly don’t feel bad anymore. The pain is gone and you feel relaxed. You figure the fright of Gus’ tackle must have made you forget about your nervousness in asking Molly to the dance. You sit up, ready to thank Gus when you feel the wetness in your pants.

Molly’s friend runs over from the lunch line. “I saw that crash, are you alright?”

“I”m fine,” says Molly.

Shannon looks over at you and scrunches her nose. “Oh my god, what is that smell?”

Out of nowhere, Gus lands a solid blow with his fist against Shannon’s face. She falls to the ground and he helps you up for the second time in as many days. “Told you I’d clobber anybody that made fun of you.”

“Let’s just get out of here.”

You and Gus run for the fence away from the school. You look back one last time to see Molly crying and Shannon on the ground.

“I don’t like her that much anyway,” you say. You see Officer James running across the field, and you and Gus run through the gate, not knowing where to go, but knowing you can never show your face in that school again.

“Viking? Party of…” The hostess turned her pad sideways. “Party of eight?”

A mild-mannered English family stood. A lanky fellow who shook with fear like a chihuahua, and a short, round lady who was somehow wearing three separate sweaters. And then the kids: three boys, three girls, all mashed up with genetics that favored nobody.

“PILLAGED!” Shouted a burly man wearing a plethora of animal skins. He shoved dad to the floor and threw mom over his shoulder. A stream of men clad in furs and spikes flowed into the restaurant behind him.

“Bring us a round of your finest mead-lite!”

Still more men flooded the restaurant until they hung out the windows.

The waitresses scrambled to keep the drinks flowing amid all the shoulder slinging. Finally the merriment stopped, and a lone manager approached the table and laid a bill down in front of the man he presumed to be their leader.

The manager took a few steps back and watched his toes. “Whenever you’re ready, sir.”

The Viking (with the English woman over his shoulder) opened the bill and threw it to the ground. “What is this 18%?”

“Oh yes, it is Sizzler policy to charge a gratuity on any party over--”

“A forced tip?” The Viking stood up and drew his axe, burying it into the table. “Attack!”

You watch Officer James chase Gus down the hallway and hope he catches him. The jerk messed up your opportunity to ask Molly to the dance.

You enter the classroom and take your seat. You look over at the hampster and it seems to look back at you with disgust. Like you’re the stinky one. Then again, your armpits are kind of sweaty. You take a whiff and reel. It might be best to keep your arms down. You tuck them tight, burying your elbows into your ribs.

The teacher works problems and calls to the class for answers. For once, you know them. You’d love to raise your hand and answer them, but are afraid of the stench escaping. It wouldn’t impress Molly much if you answered correctly but caused the room to be evacuated because of the stink.

You keep your hand and head down. You doodle on your paper, thinking of the best time to approach Molly and ask her.

“...Jake. Jake. Earth to Jake.” You come back to reality. The teacher is looking back at you. “Hi, nice of you to join us. Officer James is here to talk to you.”

One of the boys says “oooooo” and the others laugh. You get out of your seat and hope you don’t look too much like a penguin with your arms clamped to your side. You step out into the hall with the officer.

“I saw you talking to Gus earlier. You two friends now?”

You shake your head. “No sir, he just was helping me up after he knocked me over.”

“Helping you up? That little punk wouldn’t help a fly, much less you.”

“He did sir. He knocked me over and said he was sorry. Did you catch him?”

The officer shrugged. “Not yet. But I will. Somebody will squeal.” He looks off into the distance, and then suddenly back to you. “Hey, you don’t happen to know where here went, do you?”

You think about all the clobbering that will be inflicted upon you should you give him up, and shake your head.

“Ok, then get back to class. But if you remember something he said, you come find me. Two more strikes and he’s suspended for the rest of the year, and will be repeating this year again.”

You go back into class and put your head down on the desk. The teacher never calls on you. Sometimes, you think she’s forgotten you’re even there.

You think about Gus, and how he’s probably sitting at Don’s Donuts, eating an old fashioned or eclair. Or, god forbid, a chocolate donut with sprinkles. It wasn’t fair that he should get to ruin your day and then have a great day of his own.

Maybe you should tell the officer. If what he said was true, it’s not like Gus would be around school much longer to clobber you. Perhaps word would spread that you freed from his tyrannical grip. No more pushing to the front of the water fountain line, no more blazing fast throws in dodge ball, no more looking at the dark shadow over his lip and feeling inadequate at your golden peach fuzz. You’ll be a hero.